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A large wound, open and fresh,
Dappled by its own spittle,
Reminds me of the rich
Imported soil of a garden.

Moist and funky,
A steam bath awaits
When ground opens.
Rivulets of murky water

Collect at the bottom
Of each scoop;
Warm loam appears to pulse
With eyeless worms

That free with each dig --
Veiny, watery.
Open wounds give under fingers,
Dirty nails -- fresh soil too --

Marrow laden bones
Like thick thirsty tree roots
Stop scalpels from sinking
Straight through to China.

mind plays games with me
such a gentle boy, he seems, but
when his eyes get red, when he
simmers and sneers in disgust
not at other but at self, when he
leaves his gun at the door one too
many times and sneaks it past
when we sit with our legs crossed
and the madness makes us shiver
and as the jets scream overhead and
i begin to feel the chill of the evening
and feel alone and dark rippling
of the bile -- i really must find my
journal--it shall unlock the rusted
lock and although life is in fact a
joke, i haven't gotten into the swing
of things at all lately.

Thought about God, the Pope and
Things and felt quite impressed by
The glamorous robes and the Pieta
Christ in red velvet robes and a
funny hat -- St. Peter must have
been into haute couture.
Since when did Peter get all the glory?
Didn't he miss the point?
I like to picture Jesus as looking
a lot like Michelangelo.
Troubled by his sexuality and
always chipping away at angry
stone until the soft alabaster
of flesh and nose and eyes
became elaborate masturbatory
aids for the Church
Icons of religion like spiritual
pornography -- the curve of
Christ's hip perched uncomfortably
on the cross beams of wood that
held him a story closer to
Heaven.
Mary, clothed in heavy mourning
Robes makes men fantasize and wonder
who the father really was and
what sponginess lies under the
coarse fabric -- God as good
lover or Joseph as cuckold
a sucker for even believing such
a ridiculous tale.

Talking about Vatican II,
a friend told me to wear
Mary around my neck as
her roman nose
(why not Jewish?)
And sultry eyes are the eyes
of vision -- a passport to harps
and cherubim.
My professor in boy's school
(Catholic, no doubt)
said that there is a hierarchy
(pecking order)
to get to Heaven:
Get to know Mary -- she will
help you meet Jesus
Chris, Jesus -- Jesus, Chris
It's a pleasure -- I've heard a
lot about you
(Jesus will cordially pencil you in
for an appointment in the hereafter)
Behind every good man
there is a great woman.
The Goddess -- mother earth
The woman of ancient faiths --
Maybe it is only Her -- maybe she
writes under a nom de plume and
the Jesuits and Marianists know that
it's safer to do the 'ole George Elliot
Swithceroo
Illiteracy renders verse important
Words are never enough and the
Unfolding story lies dormant until
The code is crossed to render meaning

there is a time when we were working together, helping each other along with what we were doing, seeing, playing, running, saving, hiding, exploring and saving grace. grace moves with me against me until the spine of day is exposed, ripping the soft underside of morning.